


All I Have to Do is Dream

by ava_jamison



Series: Steadfast [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman/Batman (Comics), World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 19:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13084122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_jamison/pseuds/ava_jamison
Summary: PWP, light bondage





	All I Have to Do is Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BatShitCrazy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatShitCrazy/gifts).



> This goes out to BatShitCrazy. Thank you for being such a cheerleader for me. I wrote this while stuck at the airport for about a million hours yesterday. Merry Christmas! And, lol, it was my birthday! 
> 
> To anybody reading: I am getting back to my plotty storyline, I promise.

“Tighter,” Bruce says, his words a low growl. He’s spread-eagled on a frame, and Clark’s on his knees with rope in his hands, and he wonders how, once again, Bruce has gotten him to go along with this: how he let Bruce convince him this was about practicing escape skills, about life-or-death scenarios when they both know it’s more. That this whole thing is becoming much, much more. At least to him.

Bruce flexes his right wrist; the one Clark just tenderly, slowly, tightly tied, and finally judges it well-done. Bruce’s nod of approval almost brings a flush to Clark’s face and it’s not like he doesn’t realize how deeply wrong that is. He’s feeling gratification for Bruce’s silent accolades, and Bruce is acknowledging Clark for the way Clark has restrained him, and it’s so many levels of wrong that it makes Clark’s world tip a little, with a buzzing kind of thrum.

Or maybe that’s lust, but it’s not just lust for the way Bruce (Batman right now, he’s Batman, Clark’s brain helpfully supplies) is holding out his left hand, waiting for Clark to feed rope around it, tie it just like he’s tied the other one. It’s not just lust that floods his brain with endorphins when Bruce tests the bonds, muscles tightening. It’s not just lust that makes something warm and secret flare Clark’s chest as Bruce lifts his chin at him, telling him, wordlessly, “good job”. 

He ties Bruce’s ankles, first one, then the other, feeling the roughness of the rope pass through his fingers as he wraps it around each one. He wishes he had a silken cord, something soft and supple. Maybe he can convince Bruce to try that, next time. If there is a next time. 

He did, at least, get to pick the gag. It’s dark blue silk, a handkerchief, and it smells like Bruce Wayne. He twists it between his fingers, then places a hand beneath Bruce’s head, lifting. Gently, he passes the silk between Bruce’s lips. Tenderly, he ties the thing, and Bruce is gagged.

Bruce is bound now, held fast to the frame, his entire leather and Kevlar-covered body bound and spread, and though he’s still wearing the cowl and a gag, though only the lower half of his face is bare, there’s a look there that’s as close as Bruce ever gets to naked, truly naked, and Clark revels in it.

He feels a heady rush of power, not that he’s bound Bruce, not that the man’s arms and legs are spread wide and he’s looming over Batman— _he’s looming over Batman_ , but a rush of power at achieving that look, of getting exactly that naked expression to cross Bruce’s face. 

Bruce flexes his wrists, his hands. He flexes his legs, moving from quads to inner thighs to calves and then back up again. It’s mesmerizing, watching the strong, large muscles flex, ripple. Bruce writhes, pushes his body and his muscles, tensing and releasing, and slowly, oh so slowly, the barest of a smile—or something like a smile—ghosts across his eyes, behind the cowl. Though it doesn’t make it to his mouth, there’s a smile in his eyes. That’s what Clark was holding his breath for, and as the smile breaks, so does something break in his own chest, a curling ribbon of want and need and heat. 

He wants to have the man who lies before him, but first he wants Bruce free. He wants Bruce to toss off the roping bonds that hold him and meet Clark on his own terms.

But he’ll take what he can get.

The room smells like sex and sweat and Bruce Wayne’s cologne and Clark leans close, imposing. _Looms_. Lets his voice drop deep and low. Gets so close he can feel his breath bounce off Bruce’s cheek, between the gag and the cowl. “If you get free—and I know you can, because I know you, know what you can do, Bruce—I’ll only hold you down and make you take it anyway.” 

Behind the cowl, Bruce’s eyes flash, and like he can’t help it, like he doesn’t want to at all, he moans, low and aching.

Clark trails a finger along Bruce’s jaw, watches his face. “Sometimes _I_ get what _I_ want, and what I want is to suck your cock right now. 

Bruce’s eyes widen, because he didn’t have a protocol for this, because he isn’t in charge anymore, and he shivers when Clark pins his hips and slowly peels down Bruce’s uniform. Bruce’s cock springs up, hard and ready and Clark lets his breath ghost over it when he whispers, voice sharp, “ _Don’t_ ,” he says, squeezing Bruce’s hip for emphasis. Squeezing hard. “Do not come until I tell you to.”

Bruce’s breath stutters, and beneath Clark’s grip, his hips tilt upwards.

Clark bends and lets Bruce’s hard cock nudge his lips. Welcomes it down his throat. Swallows him down and Bruce’ breath comes short and ragged as he flexes in Clark’s mouth. Clark takes him as far as he can take him, hands pressing down Bruce’s hips and Bruce arches up for more, _more_ , because this is when he can let himself go—when Clark tells him, _commands_ him, to hold himself in check.

He sucks harder, deeper, with Bruce fighting beneath him, fighting to keep from giving it up, from coming in Superman’s mouth. He’s close, Clark can tell. Batman’s the detective, but Clark is learning, learning all of the man’s needs and _wants_ and tells. So he pulls off, crawls on top of him, laying his full weight on Bruce, putting his hands on the man’s biceps.

“I’m going to fuck against you like this,” he whispers, breathing into the shell of Bruce’s ear and beginning to thrust. “I’m not even taking off my suit. And I’m going make you come so hard it _hurts_. But you,” he says, voice a low growl, “are not going to come.” He thrusts against him for emphasis. “Until I come first.”

Beneath him, Bruce shudders, a full-body, hitching shudder. 

Clark takes the gag in his hands, ripping it apart, and the sound of tearing silk almost covers the sound of Bruce’s rasping breath. Bruce breathes, and Clark lets him get one breath, two, three; and when they’re even, he takes Bruce’s mouth, owning. He takes and he takes and he _takes_ , plundering Bruce’s mouth, shoving his tongue in and licking his way out, all the while thrusting against the man beneath him, pushing them both further, higher toward a cresting wave. His cloth-covered dick is lined up with Bruce’s bare flesh, and he fucks into the hollow of Bruce’s hip, slower and slower.

Bruce writhes beneath him, and Clark knows that he has one hand free from the ropes when he feels it. Bruce can play him too, and it works. All Bruce has to do is tangle a strong hand in his hair pull Clark to him and Clark's coming in the hollow of Bruce's hip, saying his name and coming, spilling into his suit and against Bruce. In answer, Bruce groans, pushing up and against him. He's thrusting and helpless, if only for a heartbeat, and maybe he would have said his name, “Clark," or even "Superman,” but Clark misses his chance to hear it because as Bruce comes with a deep, rich growl, he has to kiss him, has to take his mouth, and has to hold him, as firm and tender as he can.


End file.
